Lady Sing the Blues
by esmeralda312
Summary: She knows his type, is well acquainted with the way his eyes slide over her frame as she croons into the heavy microphone. But does that ruthless gaze see more than she realizes, mesmerized by the loneliness bared in every lilting note?


**A/N: I disclaim it all! The Vampire Diaries belongs to LJ Smith and Alloy Entertainment. **

**I have missed you guys! This is just a short little drabble, trying to get back in the swing of things as I'm pretty rusty. It was inspire****d by Regina Spektor's "La****dy," so give that a listen if you'****d like (:**

**************I'm giving this a T rating because there are sexual themes but I think they aren't that explicit.**

**Love you guys, please R&R!**

* * *

Her voice was slippery, soft. The words of the song tripped and fell from her lips as smooth as water rushing over stone, endlessly journeying toward the hope of some distant sea.

Her sleek sheath gown shimmered in the smoky dimness of the lounge. She seemed to be the only thing in the place not covered in a slick coat of grime and wear. Even the stalwart piano behind her had lost its luster, the once buffed wood now dull and faded.

And yet the place was filled with people. Enthralled, enraptured. Despite the squalor and despite the times, they would always come.

She leaned into the microphone, caressing the cool metal. Around her, a low murmur of appreciation rose among the crowd gathered about the stage. She closed her eyes and smiled, welcomed the familiar warmth of their enjoyment.

She hadn't noticed him yet.

He leaned back comfortably in the booth, cloaked in shadow. Held loosely between his fingers, the glowing end of a lit cigarette smoldered.

...

He could still remember the way she smelled, the sweet gardenia filling his lungs and the salt of her skin against his hungry tongue.

He had expected her to be all softness, sweet as the honey that dripped from her lips into that stolid microphone. Instead, she had surprised him. That voice, that sultry croon, had pitched low into ragged, breathy moans as he plied her body under his nimble fingertips.

Her needy, grasping fingers had gripped his sweat-slicked skin, pulling him flush against her, sheathed impossibly deeper and deeper inside her with each thrust.

And yet, she had woken in the morning, slinking back into her clothing almost soundlessly.

He had lain awake as she did, his eyes closed. He was curious as to what she was planning to do. Women did not simply slip from his bed the morning after. That was, of course, usually _his_ role in the whole matter.

She had reached the door and was slowly turning the knob, her breath held, when he spoke.

"Leaving so soon?"

She exhaled. Turning to face him, her eyes widened almost imperceptibly to see him sitting up in bed, the sheets sliding down the hard muscles of his torso. "I have somewhere to be."

"Darling, what place could possibly be more exciting than right here?" He patted the mattress before him, one corner of his mouth curling into a sly smirk. "Come back to bed."

She stood her ground.

"You must know that I will make it worth your while," he pressed on.

"Let's not pretend," she chided, "that this could end any other way." Still he noticed that she had taken a step back towards him as she spoke.

"Who said anything of pretending?"

She smiled wistfully and sat upon the corner of the bed farthest from him. Her movements had the fluidity of a dancer, the quiet grace of one accustomed to the scrutinizing gaze of others. Her eyes darted to his. "I know the sort of man you are, the sort of darkness there is inside of you. I am not the fool who would attempt to ensnare you."

He leaned forward, bridging the distance between them. "And yet here I am, entirely entrapped." His voice was low and dangerous, but mischief crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You bespell us all, little witch."

She had laughed then, the sound of it a lilting flutter like birdsong in her throat. When her mirth faded, he noticed a desolate smile cross those perfectly curved lips. "There is no such magic in the world."

He watched as she stood and crossed the room, opening the door.

She turned to glance back at him a final time before slipping out.

...

No one sang the blues like Bonnie Bennett. She sang like she meant it.

Like a lonely buoy tossed to and fro in the angry sea of a million people's tragedy and heartache, somehow afloat and yet tethered.

Her eyelashes glimmered as they fluttered open against the low lighting of the stage, her gaze caught in the piercing line of another's. If she was surprised to see him again, she didn't show it.

But the honeyed sound of her voice dipped ever so slightly, and he knew that he would yet be hers.


End file.
